


Splintered

by TheDarknessFactor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Brainwashing, F/M, Gen, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Captain America: Civil War, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarknessFactor/pseuds/TheDarknessFactor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Broken Arrow 3,” Bruce murmurs after a moment.  “Wasn’t Broken Arrow a sleeper cell project back in the 70′s?  Not that I would know anything about that.”</p>
<p>Natasha sighs.  “I know you know, Bruce.  I know you did your reading after Tony hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D. again.  The point is - “</p>
<p>She breaks off, looking away from the photo.  There’s a picture of Rhodey on it.  His eyes are blank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splintered

**Author's Note:**

> This one got a little out of hand, but when I have an idea, I tend to run with it (HA).
> 
> Prompt: "bruce and natasha bump into each other accidentally post-aou. shenanigans ensue."
> 
> Hope you guys like it!

“I’m on vacation,” she says, smiling.  It feels wrong on her face.

The currency exchange woman smiles back.  Natasha knows that she’s thinking one of two things right now: that she seems like a nice young woman and that she hopes Natasha enjoys her vacation, or that she’s an idiot for travelling to another country alone.  Based on the state of today’s world and Natasha’s own cynicism, she’ll assume it’s the latter.

She steps outside into the heat with Vietnamese dong in her pocket and sunglasses adorning her face; they obscure her most recognizable features aside from her hair (which is currently brown).  The street is crowded, but Natasha masterfully navigates the press of bodies, monitoring those within her eye-line.  No one is taking a prominent interest in her, so she assumes that it’s safe to stay for a few days.

She spends the next few hours scouting the entire block surrounding the hotel she hopes to occupy.  Once she is assured that there is no threat here, she rents a room and pries up one of the floorboards.  She reaches into her knapsack (the only thing she’s brought with her) and pulls out a file, stuffing it into the narrow space and replacing the board.  Her next step is to shop for clothes; her t-shirt and shorts don’t smell so great after 48 hours.

She goes for tourist: more t-shirts, more shorts, cheap flip-flops.  She builds a wardrobe in less than an hour and fills a toiletry bag in half that time.  She even buys a box of tampons, grinning sheepishly at the cashier, then dumps them as soon as she can.  She double-checks to make sure no one sees.

Natasha is surprised by how much she despises all of this tiptoeing.  Once upon a time, her life was made up of this.  She’s been in one place too long.  She really was an idiot for thinking that she could ever have a stable life (as stable as fighting alongside five other super-powered beings could be).  She thinks about Sam, yelling at her, and Wanda, hidden away safely, and curls her hands into fists.  

_Not here_ , she thinks harshly.

She goes to a drugstore and buys several different painkillers, as well as a sewing kit and floss.  Natasha takes three Advil tablets when she gets back to the hotel, grimacing at the tap water but unconcerned about infection.  She then strips off her t-shirt, revealing an angry red line that travels diagonally across her stomach.  The stitches have held, but she’s going to redo them; she cuts through the thread and slices neatly through the wound again, biting her lip and drawing blood.

It takes time and patience to pick out all of the glass fragments, and even then she isn’t sure that she got every last one.  There is still an itch under her skin when she sews the cut back up and mops up the blood, once again leaving nothing but an angry red line.  She uses the medical tape from the kit to cover it with toilet paper.

Dinner is in the hotel restaurant.  It’s easier to keep an eye on other people there.  None of them look in her direction aside from a few cursory glances.  

When she leaves to scout out her next goal - the docks (she needs a boat) - she feels a warning prickle on the back of her neck.

Natasha shows no outward reaction.  She keeps her pace, she keeps her breathing, and she looks straight ahead.  She makes it look like she’s taking a natural path as she circumvents the large office building rather than continuing past it, taking a long and complicated route to the nearest post office.  She makes a show of writing a letter on a bench outside of it, then places the envelope in the mailbox.  It’ll go to one of her false addresses - the one in Kenya.

Then she goes into the bathroom and waits.  If she opens the door a crack, she can watch the entrance.  The door opens and a man edges in - his head is turned away, she can’t see his face - but then he straightens up and looks toward the postal worker, and she feels her breath die in her throat.

Bruce looks confused.  Probably because she isn’t in sight.  He goes over to the corner and fiddles with a stack of envelopes, and Natasha takes her chance.  Soundlessly she breezes out of the bathroom and out the door, her heart pounding all the while.  There is nothing she can do about the emotional turmoil she is experiencing except ignore it.

The prickle is long gone by the time she reaches the hotel, but the first thing she does is dig up the file.  She stares at the name on the cover, and the photograph, and for the first time she feels hope (and anger, and sadness, and recklessness - )

If she’s careful… if she plays her cards right… this might just work out after all.

* * *

It smells like fish and salt, and her hair is red.

It’s a beacon.  She knows this.  By now there are, no doubt, U.S. government officials marshaling whatever forces they have here in Vietnam to track her.  They’re going to wait until the right moment to intercept her, however, and she knows that she will be the one to dictate that exact moment.  Her grip on the file tightens.  Her sunglasses keep sliding down her nose.

Bruce slides into her awareness around noon.

He’s been looking for her - she can tell.  It’s in the fidgeting of his hands, the nervous looks he gives the wait staff at the restaurant she’s eating lunch in.  She pretends to be oblivious to both him and the two agents seated in a window booth.  They’re very studiously not looking at her.  But they haven’t noticed Bruce, and that’s the key here.

Natasha pays her check.  Then she makes a ‘rookie mistake' - she slips into a deserted alley.

The smell is even worse here than it is over by the docks.  She waits calmly when the two agents approach her with their guns raised.  Their eyes travel to the file she’s holding in her right hand.

“Good morning,” she says in Vietnamese.  Then, in English: “Thanks for doing this, guys.”

Their perplexed looks only last a moment before she’s on them.  She goes for the taller one first, kicking the gun out of the hands of the other before landing a solid punch just under his ear, jarring him but not dropping him.  For that, she throws him head-first into the wall to her right and is put in a headlock by the woman, who pulls at her hair to get her to stop.

Natasha throws her head back and hears a crack and a cry, but the woman’s grip is still tight.  She plans to wrap her leg around the woman’s knee to bring her down, but she is unexpectedly released.  

Bruce.

He suffocates the woman until she passes out from air loss.  He does it with a brutal efficiency that Natasha’s always known he is capable of, but that he never used to show before.

Well.  That’s one thing to note.

She could act surprised to see him, but at the moment she’s feeling selfish and pissed off.

“Decided to maybe show yourself at last?” she asks.  

Bruce raises his hands - a gesture that means he doesn’t want to fight her right now.  She’s not sure she wants to agree.

“We can have that talk later,” he promises quietly.  “For now - what’s going on?”  His eyes travel to the file.  “What’s that?”

Wordlessly, she hands it over.  He only needs to see the name before his face transforms into shock.

“I think we need to talk about this somewhere else,” he states.

* * *

Bruce and Natasha used to share a pot of chamomile every night, before.  She declines his offer of some now, taking in every detail she can of his remote little hut outside the city.  He’s apparently still working a little practice on the poorer side of Ho Chi Minh, but it’s a forty minute walk from here.  

It’s… awkward.  Even with Bruce knowing what she knows.  Even if this is little more than business, what happened between them during Ultron still hangs in the air like a poison gas.  The worst part is that she isn’t sure who really has a right to be angry in this situation.

“Broken Arrow 3,” Bruce murmurs after a moment.  “Wasn’t Broken Arrow a sleeper cell project back in the 70′s?  Not that I would know anything about that.”

Natasha sighs.  “I know you know, Bruce.  I know you did your reading after Tony hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D. again.  The point is - “

She breaks off, looking away from the photo.  There’s a picture of Rhodey on it.  His eyes are blank.

“How many of us did they get?” Bruce asks.

“We don’t know.  Rhodey turned on us first, though.  That’s when we figured out something was wrong.  Then Tony started to hunt us down, so we scattered in order to hide.  And to make sure that we don’t kill each other.  Vision tried to murder Steve in his sleep a couple of weeks later.  I infiltrated five different high-security government buildings before I was able to find this.  They’ve been looking for me ever since.”

“Tony…?”  He sounds a bit broken.  Which only makes what Natasha’s about to say even worse.

“He’s with them for real,” she says.  “Or at least, he thinks we’re in the wrong.  He believes Rhodey’s acting on his own accord.  He thinks its best if we act under more governmental regulation anyway.”

“But _this_?” Bruce chokes.

Natasha gives him a brittle smile.  “Bruce, this is nothing new for me or you.”

His face crumples a bit at that, but he swallows and quickly composes himself again.  Natasha crosses her legs and almost jerks when her abdomen twinges.  She needs to pick out more glass fragments soon.  She’s about to ask to use the bathroom when he speaks again.

“So why come here?  Do you need my help?”

He sounds almost hopeful, but that means nothing.

“No,” she answers.  She keeps her tone low and even.  “I had no idea you were here until you started following me yesterday.  Also, I have no intention of involving you in this disaster; the last thing we need is for you to become one of them.  Can I use your washroom?”

He looks a bit hurt, but nods.  Natasha nods back, but when she stands she can’t stop from doubling over a bit.  He stands as well, moving over to her.  

“Something you’re not telling me?” he asks, but his voice isn’t accusatory.

Natasha shrugs and pulls her shirt off.

“Buy a guy a drink first,” Bruce says, but it’s absent-minded; he’s already examining her wound and not really paying attention to his words.  Natasha, however, is; she deals in words after all.

“I did,” she answers.  “It didn’t work out.”

Bruce freezes, looking up at her.  “Didn’t it?”  It’s like they’re back at Clint’s farm (Clint, oh god, he can’t be affected he just _can’t_ ); now he’s imploring her.  But it’s only a reminder that she laid herself bare for him to see.

And then he left.

“Glass knife,” she says.  “Experimental weaponry.  It’s meant to kill the victim slowly.”

“Crap,” he mutters.  He nods at his bed in the corner.  “Lie down.”

Natasha stays still while he reopens the wound with much more precision than she herself had used back in the hotel.  The air hits the exposed cut like another knife; she didn’t take her painkillers from the hotel.  Bruce is incredibly careful as he gets as many of the tiny fragments out of her as he can, one hand warm on her hip to steady her.  She takes the physical pain and uses it to blanket her mental anguish.

“You’re welcome to spend the night,” Bruce offers once he’s finished.  “I have a sleeping bag that I can use.”

The warm air and silence has made Natasha’s thoughts heavy.  That’s probably the best course of action, in this case.  She nods and says, “Thank you.”

Bruce smiles tentatively.  

He explains that he works the night shift at the practice, so he sets about getting ready for bed while she lies there.  It’s easy for her to mimic the signs of falling asleep: slowing her breathing in tiny decrements, relaxing her muscles.  Bruce eventually falls asleep himself, and that’s when she reaches into her pocket where she keeps a spare cell phone.

It’s been off until now.  With a deep breath, she turns it on and activates the GPS.

* * *

They have the hut surrounded within an hour.

They do what Natasha expects - they kick down the door and they flood the tiny space, hauling a disoriented Bruce up from his sleeping bag.  Oddly enough, there isn’t a trace of green in his eyes in spite of the obvious threat to his life.  

Natasha, on the other hand, is sitting up on the bed, waiting for them.

Director Pritchard steps through the door last.  He looks at her pityingly.

“I really thought you would know better,” he says.  “But I guess the rumors are true.  You really are losing your touch.  Using GPS to search for local bars?”

“I got bored.”

Bruce is staring at her.  She’s expecting a look of betrayal (again), but to her surprise there’s only sadness.  

“You too?” he whispers.

That startles Natasha.  “No!” she says.  There are two agents, one on each side, who grab her arms.  “No, Bruce.  I promise.”

He believes her.  “Then why - ?”

“Bruce,” she says, and something about her voice makes him look terrified.  “I trust you.  You’re the only one who’s safe around me right now.”

They grab her left arm, baring her vein, and she feels a needle slide home.  It doesn’t do anything noticeable, not until Pritchard says, “You’re needed on the homefront, Natasha.”

Then there is nothing.

* * *

The change is horrifying and disgusting.  Natasha becomes pliant in the agents’ grasp, and they release her at once.  She looks at whoever the man is with a vague look on her face.  “Orders, sir?”

The Director nods at Bruce.  “You’ll be keeping him contained.  He won’t want to hurt you.”

One of the other agents stepped forward.  “Sir, she didn’t react to the treatment like the others during the testing phase.  Are you sure that you want to - ?”

“Agent Romanoff,” the man in charge interrupts.  “How confident are you that you can kill Dr. Banner without triggering the Hulk?”

“A hard enough twist to his head should severe his spinal cord.  With brain functions disabled, the Hulk won’t be able to react.”  It’s like Natasha is reading from a manual.  Bruce feels sick.

“What, you don’t want me in your band?” he asks.  “I’m hurt.”

The man gives him an almost apologetic look.  “The drug is incompatible with the gamma radiation in your blood, Dr. Banner.  Odds are you would just become the Hulk if we tried, and that would jeopardize our entire operation.  Let’s get moving, ladies and gentleman.  We have an execution to carry out, and then we can proceed with using Agent Romanoff to lure the other Avengers to us.”

Natasha nods along like a child.  “Yes, sir.”

They move out into the evening light, one by one.  Bruce is surrounded by four guards and Natasha, who is directly behind him and keeping one hand on his shoulder.  They move through the forest, avoiding the main road so as to avoid attention.  They don’t see many people along the way, except for a little girl who’s carrying a box that looks twice her size.

Bruce is unaware that Natasha stopped until the man in charge says, “Agent?”

He turns around to see Natasha fixated on the girl.  There is something in her eyes that he’s never seen before - something frenzied and desperate.  Several of the other agents take steps back, looking alarmed.  The man is the last to understand what is happening.

“Tranquilizers!” he shouts.  “Now!   _Now_!”

He isn’t fast enough.

Natasha tears into the nearest agent with a feral cry, nails gouging into the man’s eyes while she grabs the knife from his belt and slits his throat.  She throws the knife into another’s chest and then weaves in between gunfire to jump on top of another agent.  The agent’s body is used as a meat shield relentlessly until Natasha throws it into three others before she shoots them all (when did she get a gun?).  She attacks the man in charge last of all, breathing like a race horse and looking like she’d rather tear his throat out with her teeth.

She stabs him eight times instead.

Natasha crouches over the man’s body.  She is shaking visibly, though whether it’s from the exertion or the drug or the brainwashing, Bruce doesn’t know.  He approaches her slowly, making sure his footsteps are heard.

When he’s within an arm’s length of her, he finds himself on his face with her over him, gun pressed to his temple.  Her eyes are still crazed and fevered.  Bruce feels his thoughts racing as he tries to work out a way to get through to her that doesn’t involve the Hulk coming out and smashing.

“Hey, Natasha,” he murmurs.  “Sun’s getting real low.”

Somehow, he was expecting it to be harder. 

She rolls off of him and curls into the fetal position, letting out a choked sob.  Bruce looks away, letting her have her moment to compose herself.  Eventually the cries of grief ease away, and there’s a weight on his shoulder, turning him back to her.

She looks exhausted, but her face is open and gratitude is shining there.  “Thank you.  I needed to know.  I needed to make sure.”

“This might have been a lot easier if you’d just told me.”

“Eh, that’s no fun.”  Natasha looks down at her lap.  “Bruce, can you honestly say that you’d have agreed?”

No.  No, he really couldn’t.

“So, now what?” he asks.  “You go on your way?  Help break the others’ brainwashing?”

“That’s the idea,” she answers, shrugging.  “I could use a hand, though.  If you’re up for it.”

She stands up, tall and strong as ever and offering a hand, and for a second all Bruce can do is wonder how he ever thought he could run away from her.  He grabs her hand, and she smiles at him.  It’s a bit more like her old self - daring, determined.

“Let’s go save the Avengers.”


End file.
